


Imagine

by dana_kujan



Category: Quantum Leap
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Fellatio, Hunting, M/M, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-01-03
Updated: 2010-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-05 16:58:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dana_kujan/pseuds/dana_kujan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <div class="center">
  <p><b>IMAGINE</b><br/>You're Sam Beckett<br/>and<br/>Your sister was never a battered wife<br/>and<br/>Your brother wasn't killed in Vietnam<br/>and<br/>Your father is still living.<br/><b>IMAGINE</b><br/>It's 1999<br/>and<br/>Lennon is still making love and music<br/>and<br/>Same-sex marriage has been legal since the 1970's<br/>and<br/>The AIDS epidemic never happened.<br/><b>IMAGINE</b><br/>You're Sam Beckett<br/>and<br/>You've leaped home... or have you?</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tuesday, 23 November 1999, 4:16 p.m.

"...on account of he stinks." She slapped her thigh, turned her wrist over, and thrust her hand (palm up) toward me in one fluid motion. "Am I right or am I right?"

I found myself pinned by the overly made-up brown eyes of an otherwise attractive young woman.

"W-well," I stammered. "He--"

"Now, Emma," came a man's voice from behind me. "Don't put him on the spot.

_I'm male. Yes!_

"Would I do that?" Emma asked, pressing the palm of one French manicured hand tightly against her breastbone.

Two burly, hairy arms appeared to my left. They held a black plastic drape, which was unfurled with a powerful snap of the wrists. The was billowed upon the air for a moment, then settled over me and tightened around my neck.

_I'm getting a haircut._

"You have a knack for it," the barber said quietly. His comb made its first pass through my damp hair.

"Did I use names?" Emma asked. She leaned toward me earnestly and confided, "I never use names. It's against the hairdresser's code."

At this point, I noticed she had a thick New York accent.

_Am I in New York? It wouldn't be the first time._

"Names aren't always needed," the barber said close to my ear.

He had a rather deep voice, but no discernible accent.

Emma's hand moved from her chest to wave off his comments. She put her palms on either side of my chair and leaned even closer toward me. "Tell him. Do you have any idea who I'm talking about?"

"Uh, no. No, I don't," I answered honestly.

She straightened, shifting her gaze behind my head. "See? He has no idea?"

"He's just being polite."

"Says you," she sniffed.

"How about the thirty-five-year-old single mother with the seventeen-year-old son?" the barber suggested.

Emma shrugged. "There are thousands of people in the world who match that description."

"Uh-huh. And how many of them come in here? And how many of them have confronted you?"

"Some people can't handle the truth."

"I seem to recall you telling her at the time that it was just a misunderstanding. A joke, I think, is what you called it."

"Can I help it if that woman has no sense of humor?"

They bickered in this vein for some time, which afforded me the opportunity to take in my surroundings and try to place exactly where and when I was.

The where was definitely a hair salon. It was much too modern and overly decorated to be a barbershop. There were three more styling stations to my right. In the far corner was what looked to be a manicurist's table set up under a wall-mounted television. On the wall opposite me, from what I could see around Emma's animated and chattering form, were photos of the latest styles and a marquee of prices for various services. To my left, were the reception and waiting areas, complete with cash register, chairs, magazines, and another mounted television. Beyond them were the glass front and which are typical of most hair salons. The large windows not only give the prospective clients a good view of the miracles being worked inside, but also provide a large display case for the line of hair care products promoted by the salon. What was atypical about this salon was that it seemed to look out onto a hallway. At first, I thought it might be set inside a mall, but the corridor beyond was too narrow, subtly lit, and windowless.

_That's weird._

I shook off the where and turned my mind to the when, which I usually determined from the news media or style of dress of the people around me. Since the televisions were off and the magazines were out of reach, I had to rely on Emma's fashion sense for clues as to what year, or at least what decade, I had leaped into. This proved to be quite a challenge. Her big, brown eyes were encased in the heavy, black liner and fake eyelashes popularized by Marilyn Monroe in the fifties, while her dark auburn hair was teased and bent into the Jackie Kennedy flip every woman was clamoring for in the sixties. Her clothes screamed psychedelic seventies. Or were all these things contemporaneous? I had no idea where the French manicure fell within the scheme of things. I resigned myself to the fact that I'd have to wait for Al to tell me what year it was and what I was here to do.

_I wonder what's keeping him?_

"The thing is," Emma was saying, "she asked my opinion, and I gave it to her: You'd have to certify me crazy before I'd marry someone who has the breath of the dead!"

I laughed despite myself. "Sounds like Gooshie."

Emma looked at me sharply and I could feel the barber's eyes on the back of my head.

"Uhh…" I stammered, groping for an explanation. "He's—"

Emma threw up her hands and pivoted in her tracks. Marching toward the reception area, she sang, "No names!"

I guess I had violated the code.

"It's just a nickname," I offered lamely.

Emma sighed and turned to face me again. She placed her left hand on her hip and her right hand on the countertop. She regarded me for a few seconds, drumming her nails on the Formica.

"Okay," she said at length. "Now that the gloves are off. Am I right, or am I right?"

Behind me, the barber chuckled. "You're not getting out of this one, Doc."

_Doc? Maybe I was here to offer a medical opinion._

"You know," I started. I cleared my throat. "Halitosis is often caused by the presence of bacteria in the mouth, produced by poor dental hygiene or an infection such as tonsillitis, and is usually treatable once a proper diagnosis is made."

Emma stared at me blankly.

"Maybe your friend's boyfriend should see a dentist or an ENT," I suggested.

Emma reflected on this for a second or two, then declared, "Maybe he should just try laying off the liverwurst and Limburger on onion bagels."

_Wow, he really did sound like Gooshie!_

"The man has no couth," Emma continued. "And no idea how to treat a lady. I advised her to stick with the old guy. I mean, it's not like she can bear children what with everything she's been through. Which reminds me—"

"You're through," my barber announced, whisking off the black drape.

"Hey! I was talkin' over here," Emma snapped.

"You're through, too," the barber said, slowly spinning my chair around to face the mirror. To me, he said, "There you go, Dr. Beckett."

I gazed at my reflection.

_My reflection._

"Oh, boy."


	2. Tuesday, 23 November 1999, 4:26 p.m.

The simple fact that I had leaped into myself was nothing new or startling. I had done it on several occasions. There was the time I had to win a basketball game that my sixteen year-old self could not, and the time Al and I simo-leaped.

Then there was the time my adult self landed in a bar at the precise moment of my birth.

I still puzzled over that leap. Late at night, when the host-life I'm occupying might have some downtime, I pore over the fragments I can remember, trying to find out more. Al's no help. He claims he doesn't know what I'm talking about, but he never fails to mention Beth and the girls to take my mind off it. He wouldn't have them if not for that leap.

_My God. I remember so clearly now._

I could picture the bar, and Jimmy and Frank, and the bartender-- who looked exactly like the barber I had just come face-to-face with, a portly man with dark hair and a mustache.

"You don't like it?" he asked.

I couldn't get words past my heaving chest.

_There was a Gooshie with bad breath there, too!_

"Tsk, I don't know," Emma said, coming up behind me. "Are you sure you don't want me to take out that white streak in the front there? It could take years off."

I forced my attention back to the mirror and took a good, hard look at my reflection.

My face looked forty-something, about the same as it had in the bar. But I knew from observing Al's aging and keeping track of the clues he dropped, I should be well into my fifties by now. I took this as a good sign that I was on a legitimate leap and had not entered the Twilight Zone of Al's Place, or even Al's Salon.

Still, it had taken my Al a while to find me on that leap, and it was apparently taking some doing for him to find me here.

_Where the hell is he?_

"It-- it's fine," I stammered, realizing the barber and Emma were both waiting for an answer. "The white doesn't bother me."

"Good!" the barber exclaimed, slapping me on the back. "It's _my_ code to keep my clients happy by giving them what they ask for."

I smiled weakly, rising from my chair. Emma sighed and shook her head. We all moved toward the reception station.

"Well, Em, it's almost five and I don't doubt Dr. Beckett was the last walk-in we'll have. I say we call it a holiday," the barber said. As if second-guessing himself, he looked over his shoulder at me, "that is, if you don't mind."

_If I don't mind?_

"Not at all," I offered brightly.

At the reception station, Emma and the barber stepped behind as I went around to the front of the counter. She began flipping through a large appointment book while he opened the cash drawer. I fumbled through my pockets for my wallet, or at least some crumpled bills. I couldn't have gone out for a haircut without taking some money along.

The barber regarded me quizzically. "Is something wrong, Dr. Beckett?"

I gave him a sheepish grin. "I can't find any--"

"It's on the house."

"No," I said, rifling for a third time through the front pockets of the jeans I was wearing. "I've got to--"

"Your money's no good here, Doc, you know that."

_I do?_

"Well, yeah, sure, I know that. Thanks," I took a chance and added, "Al."

He looked up sharply from the bills he was counting. "It's Bert."

My face flushed. "Of course, it is. I'm terribly sorry."

"Here," Emma called, scurrying around the counter to retrieve something from one of the chairs in the waiting area. "Don't forget your jacket."

I immediately recognized the material she handed me as my well-worn and well-loved brown, leather jacket. I hadn't seen it in forever; I hadn't worn it in over twenty years. I felt my throat tighten as I slipped it on.

"Thank you," I managed, turning for the door. Then it hit me.

_Where am I supposed to be going?_

"Say, Bert," I called, approaching the counter once more. What I had in mind was a long shot, but even if it didn't pan out, it would buy me some time until Al showed up. "Do you have any relatives in Pennsylvania?"

He exchanged glances with Emma. "Cokeburg area?"

_Oh, boy._

I pressed on. "And was there ever anyone in your family there who owned a bar?"

"Around nineteen-fifty-three?" Bert asked.

_I should've known! Sure, I didn't recognize Emma, but there hadn't been any women there._

"Exactly!" I grinned.

"And it was called Al's Place, right?" Bert asked, smiling.

Emma, who had been snickering behind her hand, gave in to her laughter.

"You are a hoot, Doc!" Bert was starting to laugh as well. "You ask me that every time you come in."

My face fell.

_How could I ask every time when I don't ever remember being here?_

Nevertheless, I did remember that leaping played tricks with my memory; so, I did what I had taught myself to do every time I found another hole in the old Swiss cheese. I took another bite, swallowed hard, and went on.

I forced myself to laugh along with Bert and Emma. "Yeah, I do. I just love putting you on, that's all."

I backed toward the door.

"Go on, now," Bert said, his laughter subsiding. "Go on home and have a great holiday."

"Yeah," Emma waved. "Happy Thanksgiving!"


	3. Tuesday, 23 November 1999, 4:51 p.m.

Once I was in the hallway, it didn't seem so weird. There was something oddly familiar, almost comfortable, about the soft lighting and octagonal archways.

I turned back to the salon. Even if I didn't remember Emma, the name of the place might ring a bell. Just above the door frame was an unlit neon sign-- shut off promptly at five, no doubt-- which proclaimed "Never Say Dye."

I said the words out loud.

There was a salon by that name at the Project. We had a staff over over a thousand, and quite a few of them were military, so it only made sense to have a grooming facility on hand. The Committee took great delight in sending VIP tours our way on very short notice, and we couldn't afford to let anyone get caught with his pants (or hair) down.

_But this can't be the Project._

Through the window, I could see Bert sweeping up. He must've felt my eyes on him because he abruptly stopped what he was doing and looked up. A smile spread across his face, then he gave me an exaggerated wink, and returned to his task.

I jerked back from the glass as if it had shattered and put a few quick steps between myself and the salon.

I had seen Bert, or Alberto, somewhere else. In fact, it was on my very first leap that I met another man who looked exactly like them. He was an Air Force psychiatrist, a Dr. Ernst, whom everyone called Weird Ernie and no one treated with much respect. It's true he wasn't the quickest of wits, but his presence must've meant something.

If I could only figure out what.

I began to meander down the corridor, hoping Al would pop in before I got very far.

Al had a standing appointment at the "Never Say Dye" at the complex. That's where he could be found at two o'clock on the second Tuesday of every month, no matter what. I was too busy, and later too frantic, to remember to get a haircut. In fact, the last few weeks before I leaped, Al chided me incessantly about my "shaggy dog" look.

I couldn't recall Al's ever mentioning a barber named Bert or a beautician named Emma, though he did have a thing going with one of the girls at the Project's drugstore. I racked my brain trying to remember her name, or that of the chain that employed her.

_It was probably "Drug Mart," just like this one._

I stopped in my tracks and stared open-mouthed at the storefront that was more familiar to me than my neighborhood supermarket. The interior was dark and there was a notice on the door explaining it was "Closed for the Holiday," but there was no mistaking it.

The salon, the lighting, the archways, and now the drugstore were just like they had been at the Project. Though even with all this evidence before me, the thought of being home was simply too good to be true.

Swallowing hard, I geared myself up for one final test. If I really was where I seemed to be, there would be an ATM directly behind me. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly as I turned around. The instant my eyes opened, they lit upon the screen and button panel.

_Oh, boy._

I took a few steps toward the machine and reached out to touch the cool metal frame, just to make sure it was real. I backed away and stumbled further down the corridor. Just beyond the next archway, I could see the "Food Factory," our cafeteria.

There was no use denying it further.

"I'm home."


	4. Tuesday, 23 November 1999, 5:10 p.m.

For a brief moment, it crossed my mind that Al and I had simo-leaped again, but I quickly discarded that idea. Both Emma and Bert had addressed me as Dr. Beckett and I had seen my own reflection.

I ran a hand through my freshly cut hair.

_What had Emma said? Happy Thanksgiving?_

The other time I had leaped into myself was November 25, 1969, just a few days before Thanksgiving. My dad was still alive, my brother was still untouched by war, and I wouldn't go to college until the following fall. It was the last holiday the family was really together as a whole, and I had tried as hard as I could to preserve that.

This clearly wasn't anywhere near the late sixties.

I fumbled in my jacket for my wallet. My driver's license had to be in there, and it would have issue and renewal dates on it on it that would narrow the scope of when I was considerably. I found my old, leather wallet in the left-hand pocket, yanked it out, and flipped it open. My eyes ran over the license, taking in all the pertinent information:

**Samuel C. Beckett  
Date of Birth: 8/8/1953  
Issue Date: 8/6/1997  
Expiration Date: 8/8/2001**

The whole thing was incredible-- and wrong. I went into the Accelerator in 1995; therefore, it wasn't possible for me to have renewed my license-- and impossible for me to leap into myself-- any time after that.

"I can't be here."

Unless I had altered events to such a degree that I had delayed my own leap by two years.

_That was almost too much too contemplate._

Nevertheless, if that were true, I wanted to get as far away from the Accelerator as possible. I headed back in the direction I had come, putting long strides between myself and the elevator on the other side of the cafeteria. I figured I'd take the stairwell up to the offices and find Al.

_Oh, my God. Al!_

The thought of being in the same time and space with Al after all these years brought a lump to my throat that threatened to strangle me. I quickened my pace.

Then, a sudden, crazy notion brought me up short.

What if we had altered the original course of events so drastically that Al was the leaper and I was the observer? I couldn't bear the thought of Al lost forever in time, tossed into the uncertainties of other people's lives, not after the trouble he had as Tom Jarret. That one leap nearly cost him his life.

Before I even realized I was moving, I had passed the cafeteria again. Breaking into a full run, I took the corner sharply, and ran smack up against a wall of flesh and bones.


End file.
